


A Study in Scarlet

by lecherysweet



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Mystery, Romance, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Suspense, The Science of Deduction, lots of science, warning: experiments may be gross and graphic in nature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7082623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecherysweet/pseuds/lecherysweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian catches Solas on his way out the door, pulling his gloves about his wrists. It is unusual for the chap to go to the University in his waistcoats simply to study chemistry. Something new must be afoot. Astute as he is, Solas allows himself the slip of smirk. "Fetch your coats, Pavus. It is time you've met the most important woman in this city."</p><p>He is sure he does not want to meet her, if he guesses right, but he untangles his coat and hat from its hook anyway. "And who might that be?"</p><p>"The Inquisitor herself, to the bereavement of Meredith Stannard. Ellana Lavellan." </p><p>A Sherlock Holmes AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 221B Baker's Street

There are a lot of things that lead us to where we end up, he supposes. For him, it’s a lot of _not_ wanting to be where he was. A lot of... not wanting things to be like they were and not wanting them to ever be the same again. Perhaps it’s mostly acceptance. Worth determined by personality and merits, not name and heritage. There’s a lot of things he wants, really. All of those things behind him now and he hasn’t decided to make for himself a new life where he is... it’s ended up being a waste.

Something always ends up binding him there.

So, yesterday, he sold his signet ring. The fellow kind of balked at him and only gave him a fraction of what it was worth but in the end it was holding him back. There’s a reason he is here and not there. His Father knew it, he knew it, his countrymen knew it. Sweet Andraste, the whole world knew it. It’s time to let go.

Today, is today.

When Felix sits across from Dorian at a cafe in Kirkwall’s Hightown, Dorian is ready to stand up and high tail it out of there. Realizing it is his friend, he sighs. “I never thought I’d see the day. What are you doing in Kirkwall?”

“Studying,” grins Felix, leaning his chin in his hand as Dorian lounges back in his chair. “At the Circle.”

Dorian snorts indignantly, as if the Circle here could possibly be the caliber of the ones in Tevinter. And he’s right, they are not. But it’s the only University in the city. “A worthwhile pursuit, I hope.”

“What about you? Something, or someone, must be keeping you here.”

“I’m sure you can guess.”

Felix shrugs with one shoulder, rather nonchalantly for a distinguished gentleman, but he is among a close friend he supposes. “Whatever did happen after you were drafted?”

“I was injured and caught fever. There was an invasion of the infirmary while I was ill. A poor time for me to neglect my study of healing magicks,” Dorian laughs in spite of himself, straightening the tall collar of his jacket against the fall wind. “This was the safest neutral ground for the injured and I was discharged here, with the option of returning to Tevinter once I was well. I stayed.”

“Stayed _here?_ ”

“As astonishing as it seems, I am not content with a life of being a pawn within it, my dear Felix.”

Felix frowns, but nods, as if they have had this conversation before.

“It is temporary, as I plan for what’s next.”

“What are you doing now?”

Dorian colors a bit at this question, feeling the meager coins in his pocket. The wages from his military pension is more than enough to live comfortably in this small city, its expenses not nearly as costly as Minrathous, but he hasn’t paid too close attention to his spending of it. “At the moment, I need to find a roommate. I’m not sure I can keep living out of the hotel.”

The look on Felix’s face shows that he is thinking of something, fingers fiddling with his napkin within his breast pocket a habit he has had since being a child. “You know, a bloke in my lab is also looking for a roommate. He’s a peculiar man, though.”

It feels like taking control of his life has been what Dorian needed all along, something going right for him the moment he did something for _himself._ “Peculiar how?”

“You have to meet him. I only know as much as I know from sharing a lab with him, which isn’t much at all. He is incredibly intelligent. He does not show up for weeks at a time and then will be there at all hours. Charming enough when he has the inclination to talk, but simply doesn’t talk during all the others.”

“Quiet sounds just fine with me. After being to war, I’m not so sure I can take adventure or excitement another day in my life.”

***

The history of the Circle of Kirkwall is a tumultuous one, to put it lightly. The city itself began as a slave trade station for Tevinter, specifically of elves, a mass sacrificial rite preformed here in order to allow a few Magisters to enter the Fade and attempt to breech the Golden City. Or so, that’s how the stories go. It’s hard to say when history is shrouded in religious bigotry. At some point the towers known as Circles had become places of “safekeeping” for mages, where they were educated as to how to use their powers while keeping non-mages safe from harm.

It is still passed down how biased against magic Southerners are up North, but times have changed. Since the reformation of the Circles after the Conclave and everything after that over a Millennia ago, the Circle of Kirkwall is a University, just like every other Circle in Thedas. They do not just teach mages, and they do not just teach magic, if anything, times are as ordinary as they can get and historians lament the days where the Inquisition wasn’t the name of our police force.

Felix opens a door to one of the rooms along a hallway, letting Dorian inside. “Ah, the man of the hour is thankfully still here.”

Dorian glances around, several people looking up to smile at his friend, one of them lifting a hand to him in greeting. He is brought around to one of the benches, to a bald elven man. His eye socket is pressed to a microscope, and one hand is adjusting it while the other is taking notes in some language he can’t read as he attempts to peer. When he puts his pencil down, Felix leans in.

“Solas,” he says, leaning against the bench sort of in his way as if he knows the man isn’t likely to stop unless he does. It’s this that makes the elf straighten up and look down at his friend, and an easy smile spreads across his face.

“Felix, afternoon, I beg your pardon,” he holds his hand out to Dorian, which Dorian takes and Solas shakes with familiar affection. “Solas Fen’harel, pleased to make your acquaintance. Recently in from the Seheron war, I see. Good man.” He leans against the bench himself.

“I know how you prefer things straight to the point, Solas,” says Felix, and motions to Dorian.

Solas’ smile changes just slightly, and Dorian wonders if this is the real version. It’s rather difficult to tell. “I do appreciate it. I have a lot of work ahead of me today.”

“You mentioned earlier you needed a roommate, and my friend here is also in need of one.”

“Ah,” He hums in this way that makes Dorian feel that he is being assessed. “A fortunate turn of events. I was looking at a flat at the edge of the market district near the University. I am sure Felix will be a fine guide. I would meet you there in the morning if that suits you, gentlemen,” all the while jotting down something on a piece of paper and handing it off to Dorian.

 _221B Baker’s Street_ , it says in fine script. Dorian nods. “That would suit me, indeed.”

***

The morning air is brisk, making Dorian pull his high collar tighter about his neck. Felix shoves his hands in his pockets, hunched with the effort. Kirkwall’s streets are bustling this early in the morning as the market stalls set up before the ladies gather to buy for the day’s meals. He’s used to early rising, as he never thought he would be, since military service had beaten it into him. Smoothing the edge of his hair so that he does not have any strays, he adjusts his hat.

Solas, with a cane over his arm, gloved fingers touch the rim of his forest-green deerstalker in greeting. Standing beside him is a woman in royal blue and gold, skirts belted at the waist and falling loose over her hips to her ankles. The cresting sunrise reflect the friendliness of her gaze as they emerge from the alleyway. Between her fingers, she dangles several sets of keys Dorian presumes for the apartments, and he watches as her attention flutters away and over the various windows above the awning before them.

“Good Morning, Mademoiselle,” Dorian greets and Felix echoes.

The pretty woman curtsies and Dorian politely kisses her hand, as it is proper of a man due his station. She, in turn, graces him with a winning smile. “Good morning,” returns her thick accent. Antivan.

“It is my pleasure to introduce Josephine Montilyet,” grins Solas.

“Oh, please, you won’t get a discount on the rent that way,” she jests, but her cheeks flush anyway. “Now that we are all here, let us enter.”

Josephine steps forward, unlocking a door, then motioning to one on the left. “I live here. Upstairs will be your quarters.” She then guides them up a short narrow wooden staircase to a door with 221B marked clearly upon it. It takes a moment fumbling with the key, but she lets them inside.

The walls are tawny gold and dark warm mahogany trim gleams from having been freshly polished. Old, but well-kept. The two burgundy leather armchairs and sofa, matching wood coffee table, and writing desk occupy the sitting room, filling the sparse area without feeling over encumbered. The fireplace is on the wall facing all the furniture, deep purple-marrons and brown-burgandies welcoming. A large window lets in plenty of light, but several wall sconces are sure to provide light for the evening.

“It’s fully furnished, but if you prefer I can have them removed at notice. Often I find students do not have furniture.”

“If you care to follow this way,” Josephine directs her small crowd to the door next to the fireplace, “there is the first bedroom, complete with bed, side tables, and wardrobe. The second bedroom is upstairs and is furnished with the same.” The walls are a deep, earthy olive green while its furnishings the same red-warmed mahogany wood as the sitting room. Above the bed, a window, adorned with simple cream curtains and the same style of sconces on the walls. They are casted bronze, Dorian surmises, not expensive but not so cheap that they will simply fall off their screws and onto the floor at the weightiest candle.

Adjacent to the bedroom is the kitchen and combined dining room, which the men seem the least interested in, including a small table with two chairs and a small stove.

Dorian heads upstairs and Solas follows him, finding the room slightly smaller than the other because of the slanting rooftop. Its walls are a soothing indigo, leaning towards its violet brethren than blue. The sea green window treatment brightens up the room considerably, as the darkness of the wall threatens to allow swallowing. It is sure to get cooler in the winter than the room below, but the added privacy may be worth the added discomfort. The extra money he would have could go to a few more blankets, at least. The wardrobe is large, taking up almost the entire wall, and there is plenty of space in the sitting room for –

“Bookcases,” Solas was saying, jarring him from his thoughts. “You are thinking of it, I know. We would need several, at least.”

“A reader, I assume.”

“Avid.”

Solas doesn’t ask if Dorian is, and Dorian wonders how he presumes so easily that he reads so much that they would need to go in on book cases together. It doesn’t matter, because he is right, of course, but somehow that annoys him more than it should. “Do you also read in Elvhen?”

“Do you not also read in Tevene?”

Dorian’s smirk extends one side of his lips. “Most texts are published primarily in Orleisian nowadays, my friend, as you know.”

Solas’ brows raise at this, and he doesn’t continue the debate further, instead leisurely gliding to the window next to the bed and leans against it. “Do you frequently welcome guests?”

“Of the personal nature? Not as of late,” Dorian answers. Getting to the heart of the matter, the negotiation stage. As Felix and Josephine obviously occupied each other chatting amiably downstairs, any personal questions they would have for the other would be able to be asked without embarrassment in front of their potential landlady. “I am new in town, after all.”

His mouth opens in one of those half smiles he so often sees on people’s faces when he says that phrase, and nods slightly. “Yes, of course. I, ah, will say the same of myself. However, I conduct my business out of my home, if that would not disturb you overmuch.”

“Business?”

“Detective, on occasion.”

“That does not sound disturbing at all.”

Solas nods, as if satisfied. “Ah, and I take a healthy go at the cello from time to time. I take no claims to do so well, however...”

Shaking his head, Dorian dismisses the rest. “I am sure we will get on without much trouble at all.”

“You do not know me at all,” Solas counters, wryly at that.

“And I can say the same for you, but it seems you are determined to convince me we are not compatible flatmates.” Dorian crosses his arms over his chest. “Let us see in due time then, neither of us are tied down.”

“A month to month contract, then? I doubt Mademoiselle Montliyet will agree to it.”

Fingers pressing his mustache into place over his curving smile, Dorian turns without needing to express his disagreement.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Sherlock originally plays the violin. Solas playing the Cello is a nod to [Cellovellan](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5278871) by Ana! She's a sweetheart, really. And also the reason I can't imagine Solas playing any instrument other than the Cello. Honestly. Whoops!


	2. Potential Clients

Two days after their agreed taking upon the flat from Mademoiselle Montilyet, Dorian arrives with his one bag in tow. He had not brought anything with him, after all, his military fatigues all he had arrived in. Rolling back his shoulders, and placing his cane on the ground for stability, he brings himself to the door. It is not what his parents will approve of, when he writes them. They will not be happy, he knows, but they will write back, and his Mother will send him some of his more prized possessions, and he will be able to look on at her swirling letters in their native tongue and smile if only for a moment at her worry. That will be enough to keep him going, at least, for a time.

Solas, it seems has already made himself comfortable. He browses the morning’s paper with a fine tea cake pinched between his fingertips. It takes a moment, and Dorian surmises that he is finishing what he is reading as he places down his things, hangs up his coat and hat on the rack near the door, and circles to lift his suitcase upstairs.

“You’ve arrived,” Solas states, hand waving to the tray of breakfast sandwiches upon the coffee table as he skims the various articles. “Certainly, you have worried the Mademoiselle. Do see you pay her in a reasonable fashion.”  

“You wound me, Solas. Do I look like a man who would do such a thing?”

Dorian hears the papers rustle as they turn. He places his suitcase on his bed, deciding to unpack later, as doing anything other than sharing the morning meal with his flatmate on their first day sharing the place seemed more than rude, he returns down the stairs.

“Tea?”

“No,” Solas answers, folding the paper and laying it across his lap, plucking another tea cake from the tray and looks out the window out onto the square where many were purchasing their breakfasts.

“How did you know I had been in the Seheron War?”

There was a question that garnered a slight smile from Solas. “A bit of deductive reasoning and decent guessing, I suppose.”

“Enlighten me, if you would be so kind.”

He laughs. “Felix is several years your junior, I presume. You also favor your right leg. Clothes are entirely new, which may not be important at all, in fact. However, it is the shoes, Pavus, considering the painful leg. One with a painful leg would choose their most worn in, comfortable shoes, not their hardest, newest shoes. There are calluses on your index and thumb, right hand where one would hold a gun – odd for a mage who is left-handed. The tan you acquired while unshaven has not quite evened out, though subtle. Four years ago, you would have been the age to be drafted, and Tevinter or Qarinus war news is never lacking.”

Eyebrows lift at Solas’ smug look. “All of that in, oh, a few seconds?”

“More or less.”

Dorian laughs. “Shall I be fetching tea for myself, then?”

“The cupboard is stocked with what I could find; I was unsure of your preference.”

“And breakfast.”

“Partake, if you must,” he allows begrudgingly, but as Dorian makes his way to the kitchenette and looks, he sees Solas hiding a bit of a smile with his mug of water.

“Such graciousness.”

“It is unlike me, I assure you.” He grabs the next paper, shaking it out with the unoccupied hand. Dorian waves his hand over the full teapot and it whistles from the heat, then pours it over his tea. “I will be expecting clients today.”

“I will vacate the premises, then.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“Would they not need of privacy?” In his voice there is a mix of concern and it teeters on outrage.

He laughs, then, heartily. “You should stay.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

But Solas is standing, the second paper barely looked at, and he is folding it up again. He has a deceptively easy gait about him, especially when he forgets to pull himself taught, arms swinging at his sides. Walking to his bedroom, the door is shut without another word. Dorian goes about drinking his tea, then paying Mademoiselle Montilyet for rent, eating a few sandwiches and helping himself to reading over the papers. It is then that he has a look over the sitting room, finding it clean, yet a bit meager for inviting guests. The only indication anyone lives here is the several newspapers laying across the arms of the chairs and the piles of books sitting in the corners.

Solas had been right after all, they would need bookcases.

There is a soft rap on the door, which Dorian goes to open. Mademoiselle Montilyet curtsies just slightly. “I am sorry to disturb you so early,” she offers, but Dorian’s eyes had already gone to the man behind her, thick beard and beady eyes piercing. “Messere Fen’harel has a guest.”

Dorian steps aside and allows them to pass. “Do sit, he will be right out,” he says to the man, turning around to escort the Mademoiselle back downstairs, closing the door to the flat behind him. “You needn’t act as a hostess, Mademoiselle –“

“Please, just Josephine.”

“It is improper of me to address you so familiarly, I cannot-“

“I prefer it,” she laughs. “I am much too old to be addressed as a maiden anymore, anyway.”

She cannot be serious, he thinks, but he does not voice it. “Of course, Josephine. We appreciate the-“

“It is merely curtesy, besides, you cannot hear the knocking upstairs, can you? It is rather unsafe for me to leave the main door unlocked.”

“Yes,” he concedes, and nods, and feels entirely terrible. “Perhaps we should pay an additional fee.”

She smiles more at that, then. “It is enough that you have offered, dear man. Put yourself at rest, and join your guest. I would rather you not be rude on my account.”

He bows, then, in the bit of a regal way his Mother taught him in the presence of a true lady, and sort of wishes that perhaps it was she that was pressed upon him instead of that wretched Livia. Not that it would have changed much at all, but spitefulness might have been prevented, an ill relationship with his Father spared, or at least, a little less strained. Wishful thinking will get him nowhere, he knows, and he shakes his head to clear his thoughts, up the stairs again.

The bearded man is speaking, and stops doing so when he enters, so he goes to excuse himself but before he does, Solas motions him to the empty armchair across from him. He sits, because he has nothing better to do in this ill-begotten city, and Solas has piqued his curiosity from his earlier assessment of himself.

“The order has completely vanished,” The bearded man continues. “I have travelled to Weisshaupt and looked for them there, the fortress stands empty.” 

“Why, exactly, are you looking for the Grey Wardens, Messere Blackwall?” Solas asks him, cupping a chin in his hand as he leans against the arm of the chair. “There has not been a blight for over a Millennia.”

“We can never be sure when a blight will come! We should be conscripting, we should be continuing –“

“You, yourself, are not a Grey Warden, are you?”

“How dare you question my –“ the man begins to yell.

“You embarrass yourself, Messere. It is a simple question.”

He stops yelling, then, though he is pink from the exertion, trying quite hard to keep himself from continuing. The effort is coloring him even deeper. “No, I am not.”

Solas leans in, folding his hands and looking serious, grim. In this moment, Dorian can swear the man looks thousands of years old instead of perhaps a few years older than himself, still in University, speaking to a man much older than himself. “Messere, allow me to give you a word of advice. Fairy tale stories and suits of armor do not make a man; his deeds make him. Whatever you have done, I hope you have learned from it, and wish you well on your journeys ahead. However, I assure you, nothing but yourself is going to change what you are, not a new name, new clothes, and certainly not an order long dead.”

Blackwall sighs, shakes his head. “You are right, of course. Thank you, Messere.” He stands then, and holds out a thickly gloved hand. Both Solas and Dorian stand as they take it he plans to leave. When Solas shakes his hand, it is with both of his own, which draws Dorian’s attention. It seems deliberate, and he is sure it is as the top of the glove is placed on display in a rather odd way, when it is then he notices the initials sewn into the leather. _T.R._

Dorian shakes Blackwall’s hand also, and he shows himself out. They sit again, and Solas begins busying himself with packing a pipe with elfroot. “Sadly uninteresting,” he concludes, as he lights the pipe, and goes back to his papers from earlier this morning. He is left to occupy himself, and so he goes upstairs to unpack.

Four years of inspections and yelling leaves an imprint, Dorian supposes. It occurs to him that he has not owned more than he can carry for four years and he is not sure that he wants much more than that, at the moment. Shaving supplies, soap, and a toothbrush. Five undershirts, three buttoned shirts, three pairs of trousers, seven pairs of boxers, ten pairs of socks, the shoes on his feet, the waistcoat and the hat on the rack downstairs, the pair of gloves in the waistcoat, and a scarf. Various medallions signifying his rank, duty, and service to his country all lay out in front of him, given to him by the infirmary before he was released. It is something he doesn’t want at the moment but he is sure it is something he’ll want eventually, so he keeps them in a small velvet satchel that fits in the palm of his hand.

All these items are placed neatly around the room so that they are easy to find while being put away. He has to admit it isn’t like him, or, it would not have been before, so used to things being scattered about. The last of his things to put away is his military appointed gun, something he hopes to never use again, in the drawer next to his bed out of simple protection at best and paranoia at worst, he does not want to think about the implications just yet. It has barely been a month.

By the time he has finished carefully arranging and rearranging where he wants his items stored, the door downstairs is being knocked upon again. He knows it is not for him, he knows it really is not his business and however much amused Solas is by his curiosity, he knows he should not impose on these people’s problems. The alternative, however, is to get sucked in by something else, he thinks, and with how perceptive Solas is perhaps the man is throwing him a bone.

Dorian despises and is grateful for it at the same time, if it is this, and begins to head downstairs anyway.

Solas is shaking the hand of tattoo-faced elven man. “This is Doctor Pavus,” he says.

He’d never told Solas he was a doctor. “A pleasure.”

“Zathrian,” the elf shakes his hand also, with a bit of nervous gusto he thinks, nodding. “I appreciate you being here, Doctor. I heard Messere Fen’harel was good, but I had no idea.”

Glancing sidelong at Solas, Dorian wonders what in the world the man is on about. Solas’ face is rather neutral, however. “Do sit, I am sure we have much to speak on.”

“Yes, yes.” He sits on the sofa, then, and Dorian sits in the other arm chair, trying to not look as interested as he feels. A fellow mage, then, but there is something strange about him that he recognizes but cannot pinpoint. “I seek assistance with obtaining a rare ingredient for an antidote. There are many ill in my clan, and I have no means to cure them.”

“You are Dalish, then.”

“Yes, Messere.”

“Why do you come to a detective for a potion and not a healer? The Circle is right there, if it is a mysterious illness they should be taken to the facilities so they may be researched and properly quarantined so it does not spread –“ Dorian begins, with passion, but Solas lifts his hand. There must be more.

“Spoken like a true Doctor,” Zathrian nods. “Yes, you are right. This is no ordinary illness. It is a... A curse. My people are being turned into werewolves. I suspect if I can obtain the blood from the specific werewolf that began the curse, then I would be able to create an antidote to cure them.”

“That is why you’re here, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“Is there a part of the werewolf you need to obtain, or the entire werewolf?”

“The heart.”

That doesn’t make sense. “Excuse me?” Dorian catches himself and instead reaches towards the writing desk and removes a pad of paper sitting there and a pen, under the guise of making a list. “The heart. Did you not need the blood?”

“Yes, precisely, which is why I desire the heart.”

Dorian resists looking up at Solas pointedly, jotting down notes for items of import he thinks they need around the flat as Solas speaks. “We will need more information on its whereabouts than that, I’m afraid.”

“It resides outside of the city some ways, in the forest. White fur, white glowing eyes, and black vines winding up its legs - answers to the name Whiterfang. There are many brown werewolves in the forest. It must have been turning them for some time, but there is only one white one.”

“You know for a fact this will work.”

“Yes.”

“I would be interested in hearing precisely why.”

“Because I am –“ but his mouth snaps shut audibly, teeth clicking.

“Have you suffered from lycanthropy, Messere Zathrian?”

“Why would you –“

“Perhaps I should examine you,” says Dorian.

“I concur,” says Solas.

Zathrian stares, stock still as Dorian fishes out his pocket watch and flips it open, sitting beside him and picks up his wrist. Turning over his hand, he slides his thumb to pinch down just hard enough to feel a pulse. It is going quick as lightning, of course, because the man is nervous they are asking so many questions of him that he didn’t expect to be answering. But the inkling of familiar magic dawns on Dorian as his eyes trace over faint scar after scar crossing the palm of his hand. Most blood mages do not use blood magic to also heal.

“No need to be nervous, Messere,” Dorian quips with a bit of a smile. “Though, you might not want to rely on blood magic as a crutch. Addles the brain a bit, we say in Tevinter.”

Zathrian blanches whiter than his pale skin is already and stands. “I think I will not be needing your services after all. I bid you good day, Serah.” He bolts out the door faster than Dorian and Solas can hold in their laughter.                       

Dorian stands to look out the window, watching the man disappear into the distance. “What do you think he was on about?”

“A bit of blood magic. He was at least a thousand years old, I suspect. Oddly specific name and appearance for a renegade wolf in the forest that turns People into bloodthirsty beasts. If it was that dire, being discovered for blood magic should be met with a healthy retort of pot meet kettle, Tevinter.”

“I must admit, that was what I was expecting.”

“As was I.” His grin does not loosen itself. “I am pleased you decided to join the charade.”

“A Doctor’s work is never done. It was rather suspicious when he requested the blood, and then the heart. It might occur to him there would not be blood inside of it to use, but if I told him thus he may not have continued the entertainment.”

Solas hums, but his expression is slightly pained. “Do they still bind spirits to do their bidding in your homeland, Pavus?”

Dorian crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the window sill. “They do not. I cannot say it does not still happen, but it is not legal, at least.”

“Then there is nowhere in Thedas that man can go. I am glad for that.”

“What?”

“He has bound a spirit, Pavus, and he was asking us to kill it. The reality, however, the only true way to save his people is to kill himself.”

“He’s not going to do that.”

“You are certainly correct.”

They are silent for a moment. “How did you know I am a Doctor? More of your sleuthing?”

Solas picks up a card from the coffee table and flicks it towards Dorian, which tumbles towards him until he snatches it out of the air. On its blank side is his own handwriting, the room number in which he was staying at the hotel, given to Solas two days prior in case he needed to reach him. When he turns it over, he shakes his head wryly.

 _Dorian Pavus F.T.C.P._  
_Minrathous Circle - Lucerni_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F.T.C.P. is a bit of a play off of F.A.C.P. - Fellow American College of Physicians


	3. Finally, Something!

The next couple of weeks continue this way, slowly. Solas and Dorian fall into a routine, becoming accustomed to each other as if they are old friends. There are days that Solas toils at the University for all hours of the day and Dorian doesn’t see or speak to him, but there is no reason to worry for him. He is a grown man, after all.

Dorian goes and orders the bookcases himself, sees them installed with Mademoiselle Montilyet’s permission. They need to be custom built since there is not much space in the small sitting room. Solas refuses to see clients during the construction, further impressing their importance upon Dorian. It takes those weeks for them to be finished, and they split the cost. Solas fills half the shelves almost immediately. He does not mind when Dorian begins to peruse the collection while he is out, preening and complaining about each book upon his return from the lab in the evenings.

In fact, he would daresay Solas enjoys it despite his curled lips and furrowed brow. He even throws out several of the books after their fiery several evening long debates.

After three weeks, a letter arrives. It is from his Mother and he spends the day in his rooms thumbing the parchment and attempting not the smear the ink with the oils from his skin. There is nothing Solas can do to lure him out that day, even promises of arguments over a new book purchase. The evening is quiet.

In the morning, Dorian catches Solas on his way out the door, pulling his gloves about his wrists. It is unusual for the chap to go to the University in his waistcoats simply to study chemistry. Something new must be afoot. Astute as he is, Solas allows himself the slip of a smirk.

"Fetch your coats, Pavus. It is time you've met the most important woman in this city."

He is sure he does not want to meet her, if he guesses right, but he untangles his coat and hat from its hook anyway. "And who might that be?"

"The Inquisitor herself, to the bereavement of Meredith Stannard. Ellana Lavellan."

Dorian is sure he has heard that name before, but he cannot quite place where. He attempts to remember, his melancholy completely forgotten, gloves, shoes and cane gathered to follow. “Inquisitor.”

“Quite. It seems there is an emergency.” He holds up a note between two fingers. “At the Chantry, no less.”

“Scandalous.”

This earns him a chuckle.

The Chantry is across the market square and up at least a couple hundred stairs into Hightown, then crossing the expanse of its cool white-blue marble tiles. Red banners provide a stark contrast to its walls and cathedral spires and buttresses, reaching to the sky. They climb up its massive staircases, and pull open its towering doors to slip inside.

It isn’t hard to find where they are supposed to be. A tall blonde man and a shorter elven woman stand speaking quite seriously to a dwarven man with prominently displayed chest hair and a Chantry sister who looks rather angry for a woman of faith in the middle isle. The elven woman has a briefcase in her hand, and the blonde man is frantically writing as the dwarf wildly gestures as he speaks.

She is unusual, Dorian notes. But as a member of the police force, he shouldn’t be surprised that she wears high-waisted breeches that buttons up the side of slim but muscular legs leading to short heeled boots. They are paired with a feminine enough but simple waistcoat without tails and the peeking of blouse sleeves from beneath its collar and wrists. A long brown braid trails down her spine, long curling bangs framing a sharp jaw and fierce brown eyes.

Before Dorian has noticed, she has turned and is walking towards them. Solas is much farther ahead, meeting her halfway. “I have never seen the likes of it before,” she says. Dorian must have missed her say her greetings. “I know your proficiency with chemicals and magics, so I sent for you immediately.”

Solas nods. “Has the scene been tampered with?”

“Unfortunately,” she confirms, her eyes flickering over to the Chantry sister, a bit of anger in her voice. “She has begun cleaning the word off of the wall.”

It is then that she leads them over to the body of the dwarf on the ground, bloody and battered, with a word written on the cream candle-lit wall in blood.

_GAATL_

The blood drips down to the floor and pools there, and along the molding there are shards of something red and sparkling. Stepping over the body and taking out a magnifying glass from a pocket, Solas bends to look at it. It looks like glass, or some sort of stone, but it seems it was shattered from a larger object. He moves the magnifying glass in his hand slightly and it refracts the light along the floor and across the body, illuminating more of the red glass-like substance where it is almost undetectable, but it does not seem to be present in the blood on the wall.

Solas moves to the body next, not caring that he is ruining his white gloves by delicately moving aside the jacket of the victim where it is lifting away from the site of the wound. Dorian notes that the site of entry is large and jagged, definitely not a knife, though without a proper autopsy by a pathologist it is hard to be sure. He does, however, lift the magnifying glass again, curiously not to his eye but under the beam of light precisely from the candle, and tilt it carefully until it shines over the wound.

It sparkles, as Dorian suspects Solas knew it would, the same red sheen.

There is more moving about then, checking the dwarf’s hands and pockets, his shoes, his neck, and then standing straight, Solas turns around slowly, standing close to the body.

Gloves come off, and are thrown to the ground near the body, discarded. “I would speak to any next of kin, if I may.”

Her arms cross over her chest. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve figured out, Messere Fen’harel?”

Hands clasp behind his back as he paces back to her side, and Dorian finds himself more interested in his interactions with this particular woman than he is with the case. _This is new._ _He’s usually so eager in his showmanship._

“I would not like to worry you overmuch, if I can prevent that, Inquisitor. I understand you are quite encumbered.”

“The understatement of the year, my man,” scoffs the blonde man with the scar across his lip.

“May I acquire a sample of that red dust before this is cleaned up? I will confirm my suspicions first.”

Her marked brow furrows, lips frowning. “That’s not how it works, Detective. If it’s dangerous, I can’t just let it walk around the city with you.”

“I am an expert in dangerous chemicals. No one will come to any harm with it in my possession, I assure you.”

Continuing to stare at him hard, “I will have to hold you responsible if something happens, Fen’harel.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

It takes a long moment, but she sighs, and nods. “Alright. But you’ll use the specialized forensic bags for this stuff.”

“Your care for me is quite endearing,” he chuckles, teasing.

“Oh shove it,” she huffs, but she’s not really offended as her nose wrinkles, and her lip curls as she tries not to smile. Opening the case, it reveals a forensics kit with clean rubber gloves and various plastic bags and glass plates. She places them carefully on a pew far away from the scene for the kit not to be contaminated, and offers it to him.

“Prepared, I see.”

“We have worked together before.”

Solas snaps the rubber gloves into place, and takes the items back to the scene to begin gathering evidence into bags. Various samples from various places. The Chantry sister has retreated somewhere into the church, and the dwarf is looking on, just as distraught as he had when they’d arrived, arms crossed over his body. Dorian approaches him, a hand extended.

“Dorian Pavus. That rude chap over there is Solas Fen’harel.”

“Varric Tethras.” He takes the offered hand and shakes, amiably enough, though his eyes doesn’t move from the body. “That there is my brother, Bartrand. The fool, getting mixed up in some sort of business he didn’t belong in, I’d bet.”

“You have any idea?”

Varric shrugs. “The hell if I know. I only just got back here a few days ago. I’d barely seen him. And this,” he waves a hand at the wall. “Besides, being inside a Chantry. He’d have to be dragged here at gunpoint.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Enemies?” He laughs, or rather, barks, ruefully, shifting on his feet. “You mean, does he have any friends? But this is something else entirely different. Those who would want to kill either of us would want to stay as far away from this place as possible.”

“You can attest to that completely?”

“Sure, why do you ask?”

“It is merely a precaution, an extra question to make you think twice about the answer,” Solas explains for him, returning with a handful of small bags filled with red _something_. “I will advise that you keep your wits tightly about you, Master Tethras.”

Brows raise into his hairline. “You think I am in danger?”

“I think the precaution is not unwarranted. At best, it is a bit more trouble until we find out what has happened. Let us not think on what is the worst just yet.”

“You are right.” Varric grouses, eyes canting to the side as Lavellan returns. “What will happen to the body?”

“Whatever is appropriate to your customs, Varric,” she nods, a hand on his shoulder. He sighs, and pats it.

Shaking the hand of the blonde man, Varric begins to gather his things. “Thank you Knight-Commander, Inquisitor.”

“Of course. You know where we are if we can be of service,” the Knight-Commander replies, giving a clap with the other hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “We will be in contact as soon as we have news.”

Varric waves, dismissively. “I know,” and turns to put the scene behind.

Lavellan waits until Varric has left before she says much more. “I did not think that the Carta had much dealings with the Qunari.”

“I think this is a set-up,” confirms Solas, quietly, knowing how easily the acoustics makes voices ring inside the Chantry. “But this is not the place to discuss this, and I would rather confirm some of my suspicions before I say more.”

Her eyes flicker to the bags he is holding. “I would find something that you can store those in outside of plain sight.”

“A wise idea.”

“Shall I transport the body to the coroner’s office?”

“Yes, I have what I need, for now. I will contact Master Tethras on my own when he is less distraught, if you will lend me his information.”

She steps close to Solas then, brow firm and furrowed, to express something private that must concern him since his brow raises. They speak quietly in a tongue that Dorian cannot understand, but not so softly that no one can hear them speak. It is obviously a conversation not meant for outside ears – he and the Knight-Commander try to seem like they are not listening for words they have heard before, attempting to decipher the soft consonants and lyrical words.

Solas nods, a sharp single dutiful nod, her anxiety not going dismissed. Determination is in her eyes, and she stares straight into his as if she demands equality, a rival of minds, electricity humming in the air around them and able to be tasted on the tongue.

For a moment, Dorian thinks Solas may kiss her.

“Thank you for the warning. I will look further into it,” he says instead, and turns, an idle wave goodbye. Dorian must quickly shake Lavellan’s and the Knight-Commander’s hands (whose name he still does not know) and jog to catch up.

 


	4. Gathering

It barely takes a half hour before they are at the Circle in the chemistry lab. Solas hangs his waistcoat and even his button up shirt in his locker outside the lab, opting for his lab coat before taking the brown paper bag of samples inside. The other lab members greet them cordially as usual, and they seem unfazed when Solas barely acknowledges them in return, though Dorian stops to shake several hands along the way.

Solas takes to his bench, leaving the bag of samples untouched in the bag while he prepares his materials. Fresh gloves are applied. He cleans new plates and spatulas with ethanol, then the surface of the microscope. Several petri dishes are prepared in this way also. A Bunsen burner is pulled from its shelf along with several beakers. Bottles of chemicals are pulled from the shelves along with boxes of who knows what, arranged in a row. He is neat, Dorian can give him that, when he works.

Finally, a pad of paper, and a pen, set beside him but out of the way, dated. The notes began, but again in the language he cannot read.

“You think Lavellan can read that?” Dorian asks absently.

“I cannot be sure. It matters not to me,” Solas answers, and Dorian is surprised he entertains the question at all. “Hand me the plates from the bag.”

He does, and places them where Solas points on the table top, stacked in a pile. They are opened and scraped into various dishes, and then labeled meticulously.

“Do you have a suspicion as to what this is?”

“I do. Have you not seen it before in Tevinter?”

It is an unexpected answer, and an equally unexpected question. Dorian’s eyes turn back to the larger shards still sitting in the bags, covered in blood. Some of them are not, however. He lifts one in his hands, and looks through the plastic at the gem. Bright red, cadmium or almost vermillion in color, in a distinct crystal formation. It emanates a familiar sort of magical aura about it.

“It reminds me of lyrium,” he says at last. “But I have never seen red lyrium even in Tevinter.”

“Ah, that surprises me somewhat, and yet – perhaps I should not be.”

With that, Solas returns to his work and Dorian finds he does not mind that the chatter ends. He wants to see the results of the tests himself. Some of the blood has been collected into a vial. Solas adds water and mixes, inserts a thermometer, then gently massages his thumb over the tube. Frost covers his fingertips and the temperature begins to drop. Once it reaches the desired temperature, he places the vial aside.

Dorian notes that he does not drop the temperature too low for the water to freeze. “What are you –“

“Patience, Pavus,” comes the answer, a bit of a tsk, and Solas goes back to work.

One of the slides is placed under the microscope, and then quickly switched with another, then a third and fourth. There are notes taken. Then Solas motions for Dorian to take a look himself.

Of course, these are smears of blood, one from the body with the crystalline powder and one from the wall which is without the powder.

“In the event that we cannot presume the assailant is right or left handed, these samples are from the beginning points from two letters. The third is from the T’s crossbar. None of them contain red lyrium.”

Dorian’s mind goes over the scene again, piece by piece. “It’s possible the density of the red lyrium is so great that it was simply too heavy to stick to the fingers of the murderer.”

“I tested that theory while we were there. Lyrium suspends in water quite easily.” His vial seems ready, and he picks it up to add a clear liquid before taking it over to a large machine and turning it on. “No, the writing on the wall is an afterthought to attempt to frame someone else for a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Yes, you mentioned this however, who are they attempting to frame?”

“The Qunari, who else?”

Dorian’s brows raise. “What on earth do you need a centrifuge for?” Indicating the machine he had just placed the vial of blood into.

“To eliminate the prospect of poisons. Arsenic is easy and popular a method of disposal, Pavus. Available at any apothecary. So simple a solution that it has become an easy write off for hard to solve cases. It is standard in every case I work now.”

A nod, because, it is true. Poison is popular and bought at any general store or place that sells medicinal use items. Arsenic is typically the poison of choice: colorless, tasteless, and odorless. While cyanide and other poisons could have been used, they are hard to obtain and even harder to administer.

“The question stands to be asked:” Dorian begins again after a few moments of watching Solas set up the next parts of testing for the poison. “How do we possibly get enough lyrium to test on, and how to we make it safe for testing?”

This question earns a hum from Solas, who was obviously thinking of the same issue the entire time. “Perhaps that is a subject that shall be left for later down the line. Master Tethras’ brother and the framing of the entire Qunari race by an unknown vindictive entity should be our main concern. However, I am curious as to how red lyrium plays into this matter.”

He wonders also, leaning against the bench. What does one do with that sort of information? It isn’t as if it is kept quiet that the Kirkwall Chantry are vocally opposed to the Qunari lodging in their docks, however, the Qunari have been restrained and in fact, cordial during their stay. Their vitriol has been little more than prejudice at this point. And Dorian had more than one reason to be personally offended. “Are you certain?”

“Perhaps Master Tethras will have more information for us.”

The chemicals are prepared, and the vial is removed from the centrifuge. Inside the blood has separated into multiple layers: the top transparent yellow, next thin layer white, a deep red wide section, and at the bottom a small amount of shimmering red.

“Interesting,” is all Solas utters, emptying only the yellow top liquid, the plasma of the blood, into a clean petri dish prepared with another liquid: hydrochloric acid. The vial is capped and set aside, a flurry of notes are made, before a third chemical is added to this dish, hydrogen sulfide.

Dorian is able to parse out what Solas has done for himself with the minimal amount of chemistry that is taught during medical school in biology labs. When water is added to blood, it pops the red blood cells, making them less dense than the sugar water he added later. This allows the red blood cells to float somewhat, revealing the sediment of red lyrium at the bottom of the vial.

Effectively, this has proven beyond a doubt that there is red lyrium in the wound of the victim, where one might attempt to deny merely looking through a microscope as detective folly or a trick of the light.

The plasma, however, does not change color or form any sort of residue, also proving there is no other type of foul play involved.

“A rather violent way to kill someone,” says Dorian aloud, to which Solas nods. “It will be a few days before a pathologist has time to return information.”

The butt of his pen taps against his paper, swinging between his fingers. “Ah, no. That should not take long at all.”

 

***

 

Solas is right about his estimation, at least, and Dorian’s surprise with the dusky blonde elven woman’s work is punctuated by her visceral distaste for his attempt at compliments. Like Lavellan, she spares pleasantries and gets to the heart of the work, or the lack of it.

“Here is the most interesting find,” she pushes an x-ray against a light box. “The shape the weapon makes in the body is pyramidal.” There is indeed a triangular dark shape on the x-ray, indicating a cavern of empty space in the chest where it had been penetrated by the weapon in several places. They initially thought there was only one, but there were many more than that.

“Cause of death?” Dorian asks, sliding a second x-ray onto the light box. It is the body from the front, and from a quick count, there are five points of entry.

“Blood loss,” she answers.

“Were you able to determine whether the heart was removed ante or post-mortem?”

She hums a bit. “I was not,” then she switches on the lights for the room to walk them over to the waiting cleaned up body. With ease she pulls back the edges of flesh, revealing inside the chest cavity. “However, from my guess it would need to be post-mortem. Look here. This is the source of the hemorrhaging.”

Gloved fingers lift edges of tiny strands, like thread, that look ragged and broken, thin in some places and thicker in others. “The heart was ripped from the body?”

“It looks like it, yes. No person would allow something like this to happen to them without fighting back.”

“Velanna. I need information in the red lyrium content in the body,” Solas finally interjects into the conversation, jolting the pair somewhat.

Guiding them to a small locker, the tray of it is rolled out to reveal several small bags of shrapnel like pieces. She picks up one of them to hand off. “That seems to be intact, evidence that whatever he was murdered with was some sort of object, however, what it could possibly look like we may never know.”

Through the plastic is a half a skull carved into the red lyrium. It is broken at the back, as it was attached to something else, and snapped at the neck, cracked down the middle of the eye socket, but it is unmistakably an eye socket, nose, mouth, hair of some sort, a jawline, the hollow of an ear, the stretching muscle that would lead to the neck.

“Could it have been a statue of Andraste?” Dorian wonders aloud, peering at the half-head from where he can attempt to hover.

Velanna’s head shakes. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

“Perhaps I may keep this for the investigation,” Solas suggests, lightly, it seems, to not earn her ire.

“I know your scheming, Solas.” She begins to pack up, and does not ask for the lyrium back nonetheless, sliding shut the locker. “Lavellan sent ahead and told me to allow you whatever you need _within reasonable limits_.”

He chuckles and folds the bag over itself a couple times, then tucks it into his inside breast pocket. “She is certainly expedient.”

“She’s good at what she does,” snaps the woman, placing the body back to rights and then sliding the table back over to its locker. With a bit of magic, she slides the body from the rolling trolley and into the storage locker. “I will keep the body here in the morgue for as long as I have jurisdiction for but unless I have the proper paperwork, I cannot keep it for more than a week and a half.”

“Yes, as I am well aware.”

“Yes, as I often must remind you.”

 

***

 

It is a few days yet before Varric Tethras finally agrees to meet with them, and when he does, it is not with the two of them, it is with the three of them. Dorian wonders if there is something in Solas’ reputation that proceeds him, or if it is in Lavellan’s. Is Tethras a member of the Carta? Did Bartrand have dealings with the Carta and not Varric? There is not much they know about him, or, there is expected to be more Solas knows about Varric Tethras and his brother however the man is not likely to reveal what he knows.

Lavellan, consequently, hovers at the edge of Solas’ armchair near the window with a cup of tea Dorian has provided her. He has caught her skimming the titles of the books in their bookcases several times with a light that almost begun to smooth some of the premature lines the stress of her job has brought to her face.

“Like anything you see?”

She jolts, had been lost in her thoughts again, he notices. Dorian wills Solas from his room with the sheer force of his mind, as the two obviously have enough to speak on that this awkward silence would not be present. Lavellan shrugs with one shoulder, and he wonders if she is warm with her waistcoat still on but she did not even acknowledge it when he attempted at pleasant conversation and niceties. “An interesting selection. A combination of your interests, I presume?”

“No, they are all Solas’. I am new to Kirkwall and did not bring many possessions with me.”

“From Tevinter, correct?”

“Yes,” he chuckles, carrying his homeland on his sleeve. As if the accent didn’t give people a first clue. “Fortunate for me, Solas has interesting taste in literature, if not often inaccurate.”

“Oh?” Her brows dart into her hairline, and the spark of curiosity comes over her face. “Fen’harel, _inaccurate._ I daresay he would argue to the contrary.”

“Vehemently. He is rather protective of his books.”

Her breath catches in the hint of laughter, the lift of one side of her mouth in a smirk. “Right?” Wandering over to one bookcase, she picks up one of the books he hasn’t been able to read simply because it is written in Elvhen. Body swaying to redistribute the weight of the heavy book against her hip, she lets it flutter open to a random page. The other hand lifts her tea to her lips.

After a few moments of silence, Dorian ventures to ask, “What’s the book about?”

“The Fade,” she answers automatically, pacing to the fireplace and placing her cup on the mantle. “I can’t read as much as I’d like. Some of the iterations of Elvhen I’ve never seen before. I’m not sure where one would find a book like this. It must be ancient.”

“It is,” Solas interrupts, the sound of his bedroom door closing behind him. “I did not expect you to read Elvhen.”

She gives the nonchalant shrug again, gingerly peeling back page after page. “I appreciate the high esteem you hold me in, Messere.”

Dorian cannot help the small smile, and decides the change the subject instead. “Now that you’ve decided to join us, perhaps we should get on the subject of the murder before Varric Tethras arrives.”

“I’d like to know of him. You mentioned the Carta before, Lavellan. What association does he have with that?” Solas goes to sit in his armchair, fingers tenting beneath his chin.

Lavellan closes the book and places it back on the shelf, precisely where she had pulled it from. “I have dealt often with Bartrand and Varric and the other members of the Dwarven Merchant Guild. Surface Dwarves cannot trade directly with the underground cities hence the black market, also known as the Carta. There are times where Varric has tipped me off to Carta movements when they are smuggling illegal goods.”

“Would it not be advantageous to open trade and do so directly?”

“Please, if you would like to discuss Dwarven politics, be my guest. However, I have much more pertinent things to do,” she replies irritably.

“The Qunari, what’s the situation with them?” Dorian interjects, seeing Solas sit straighter in his chair.

She makes a sound of frustration. “There is a campaign led by Sister Petrice to have the Inquisition lead against the Qunari, though the Arishok has been quiet and polite. Many of the Chantry members are intimidated by them and the handful of converts. I have reason to believe our perpetrator is a zealot, though not directly within the Chantry itself.”

“Do you have evidence to back that up?”

Her brow raises. “Do you have evidence to refute it?”

There is a knock on the door, and with Dorian being closest to the door at the moment, he is the one who goes to answer it. “Ah, Varric! Do come in. Would you like a cuppa?” With a sweep of his arm, he attempts to bring a bit of light to the room where Lavellan and Solas had only brought tension.

“Afternoon, Pavus. Lavellan, Fen’harel. Sure, I’d like that cup. No sugar please.” The door is shut behind him and Varric is shedding his coat within a few moments, hanging it on the rack behind the door.

“Please, have a seat,” Solas motions to the couch. Lavellan is standing near the window with her arms crossed over her chest. The Dwarf sits on the couch between the two armchairs and relaxes into the cushions. “It is good we are finally able to speak to you.”

“You sound like speaking about my brother’s death may actually be important,” Varric scoffs. “I assure you the only thing it has caused is a hell of a lot more work to get done.”

“Varric, this is incredibly important,” Lavellan scolds.

“Yeah? What do you think any of this has to do with Bartrand?”

Solas motions to the bag sitting on the table in front of them. “Does that look familar to you at all? Please do not remove it from the bag. Red lyrium is highly dangerous.”

Varric reaches for the bag, peering at it through a magnifying glass that he produces from his waistcoat meant for gemstones. Visibly, he pales.

“Varric?” Lavellan prods impatiently, leaning forward slightly.

He places the bag back down on the table. “We went on an expedition of the Deep Roads and found an ancient thaig. Older than our records show. Bartrand...” he trailed off and shook his head. “We found this strange idol and he was the first to touch it. Then he sealed us in. We had to find an alternate way out, lost a few people along the way. I haven’t seen him until I was called to the Chantry to identify his body.”

“Who sent for you?”

“The Sister.”

She hums. “I know you are Andrastian, Varric, but I was under the impression you didn’t attend services often enough for the Chantry sisters to know you by name.”

“Everyone knows me by name, for better or for worse,” he laughs, wearily. “More because of Iron Bull and Hawke than because of myself.”

“This red lyrium idol must be the murder weapon.”

“Our trip was extended by two weeks. I have no idea what he’d done with it.”

“Could you provide us with a picture of it, somehow?”

His head shakes. “No, drawing is not a skill I personally possess. Perhaps Hawke could, though.”

Lavellan shrugs, leisurely turning back to the book cases. It seems she begins to look over the titles again, though Dorian is sure what is going on in her mind is more complex than that. “What is your involvement with Hawke’s duties?”

“None.”

She sighs. “Your sense of self-preservation is admirable, Varric. There’s more at stake here than just your life.”

“If you’d tell me then I would be more willing to talk, Lavellan. I’ve been more than kind.” He replies, testily.

“You know that’s not how this works, Varric. Don’t pretend that keeping the wrong contraband off of the streets is not mutually beneficial. The Guild would be held responsible and _who wants that_?”

Varric makes a sound of frustration. “Look, I don’t like all of my cards to be laid out on the table. I have people to protect me if I need it, and it’s Hawke’s job to deal with the Qunari. I’m not involved in that nor do I want to be.”

“They involved you when they attempted to frame the Qunari for your brother’s death. So, _again_ , what involvement do you have with all this?” her hand waves in the air, a gesture indicating the entire situation.

“I run a rather large spy network, Inquisitor, that’s what,” comes Varric’s terse reply. “The Qunari are as cunning as they are secretive, for good reason considering the insurrection against them. We were making headway with figuring out why they were here in the first place before Sister Petrice decided she needed to take matters into her own hands.”

“I’ve denied her request a dozen times.”

“Yes, and the more you deny her the more she gets Chantry zealots to act against them. If a war breaks out, there will be a massacre. This isn’t the Seheron.”

Lavellan sighs. “I know. That’s... I’ve been waiting for Elthina to do something about her, but I haven’t the evidence to act against her. Still, I don’t think this is it. Most of the Qunari death toll has been Tal-Vashoth. That wouldn’t drive the Arishok to order the death of a Dwarf with no connection to the Chantry besides being _in_ one. Do you know what gaatlock is?”

“I know some merchant has been bugging the shit out of Hawke to convince the Arishok for the recipe for it, for one. It’s not some secret weapon, either. It’s just an ancient explosive. We based gunpowder on it. Look, I don’t know what this has to do with me or my brother –“

“Isn’t that precisely the point?” interjects Solas. “The secret of what was done with the red lyrium was lost when Bartrand was murdered. The Qunari are being used as a scapegoat in order to start a religious war. Is this something you want hanging on your head, when you have the ability to help, Master Tethras?”

Varric lifts his cold tea to his lips and takes a long drink. “It seems I will be dragged further into the mess my brother has made despite my best effort to stay out of it.”

“I’m sorry Varric,” sighs Lavellan. “There’s nothing I can do about it this time.”

“I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if this is too science-y or fine for you guys. I tried to skirt the lines of staying sort of accurate to methods but also not being so detailed that it turns into a paper. Thanks! 8D


	5. Clue #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to heed the warnings here on out, as the descriptions of cadavers get more illustrative. I am trying to depict it accurately, though without alienating people as to what is happening.

Everything is quiet for some time. Solas spends the downtime in the lab, laboring away at the small amount of red lyrium spun down in the vials of blood in the centrifuge. He comes home in the evenings to read, and two weeks go by where he barely says a thing. Dorian begins interviewing for a job at the Chantry hospital, is rejected a week later on the basis that he’s Tevene, and tries to stave off his sulking by limping around the market square, buying things they can use for the apartment.

All that changes when Lavellan bumps into him in the square one overcast mid-morning, grabs his wrist and begins dragging him off without preamble.

After an attempt to yank his arm away, Dorian finally finds the words to ask, “Just what is going on?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Yes?”

“Fen’harel is already at the coroner’s office. We need to hurry.”

“For what, precisely?”

“There’s been another murder.”

“Wait – what?”

“I’ll fill you in on the details when we get there. I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Lavellan, you can let me go.”

Her hand drops his, and wrings out. Though, she goes at a pace that’s nearly too fast for his leg. She doesn’t wait, or even look back, so he must pick up his cane and hobble faster. At some point, he breaks out into a run, cane forgotten and clutched in a hand.

The coroner’s office is in an offshoot hospital on the side of Kirkwall’s University Hospital. In the basement, the hum of ventilation invades his senses as they descend the stairs and push through the metal double doors of the morgue.  Formaldehyde creates a hazy blanket on the floor, seeping out from the cracks. Velanna and Solas are bent over a body, speaking quietly, when Lavellan bursts through the door and Dorian barely catches up enough not to get locked out.

“There is a mutation,” Solas says, without looking up from the body. “Look here, on the shoulder, red crystals growing from the body. Also, it emits a red hazy cloud, eyes are subsequently red in color, and signs of the blight in dark creeping lines form over the trigeminal nerve.”

Dorian goes to look. “Gloves?” Velanna promptly hands them off, and he snaps them into place. The body has already been cracked open, and he looks into the chest cavity of the Dwarf. _Why Dwarves?_ “What happened?”

“According to eyewitness accounts, he hunted down and killed a Carta member. It took quite a bit of force to apprehend him, resulting in his death. As you can see from the emblem on the left side of his shirt, he is a member of the Dwarven Merchant Guild. The Carta member was found to be smuggling more red lyrium into the city.”

“What would he want with red lyrium when it is growing out of his body?”

“I would also like to know the answer to that question. Additionally, how is a Carta member able to obtain red lyrium and where is it sourced from.”

“Look,” Dorian runs his finger along the inside of the lung wall. Instead of being soft and hollow, the lung was hard and full. Strange, as the man is dead, so it is not air inside. “May I have a scalpel?” This too is handed off to him with more than a begrudging look from Velanna, before he is sliding the blade along the lung. When he peels away the walls of the organ, inside is solid red lyrium. He has to force himself not to shiver.

“Interesting,” hums Solas, shifting on his feet. “I wonder if the mutation occurs first inside the body and spreads, or the opposite. What vehicle is used in order to create the lyrium from the host?” He moves the shoulder to get a better look at the lyrium growing from his skin.

“Would you be so kind as to open this section of the body for us?”

Velanna begins the work, and it takes a few moments of standing there, dissecting. It takes some time to get beyond the skin, ligaments, down to the bone. The layer of fat under the skin is thick and slimy, peeling back from tendons audibly, the body having not been prepared for burial. Coagulated blood makes the muscles stiff and more difficult to move out of the way of the capsule enclosing the shoulder joint.

Between her fingers is the blood, Velanna rubs, smearing the clot. In the intense light of the lab, it shimmers against the white plastic. “There seems to be an abnormality with the blood.” Before continuing, she goes into the lab and returns with vials and fresh gloves on, filling several vials of it and sealing them with stoppers before setting them aside. “As the body begins to petrify, the blood should also liquefy, making it able to be used for spinning down. I suspect the lyrium is present in the blood, or this crystallization is likely unable to happen, but I am sure you would like to confirm.”

“Thank you,” Solas murmurs, eyes gazing over the body again.

The synovial capsule takes some time for her to break through, and then the dislocating of the shoulder to move the bone apart enough to access the tissue beneath it. The shoulder itself is a very small space, no matter how muscled the person. Oddly knobby, Velanna takes a cloth to rub the blood off the end of the bone, revealing it isn’t blood at all. Entirely, the capsule is scaled with red crystals, and inside the saucer of a socket is also.

“Interesting,” Dorian manages, taking a book from his inner waistcoat pocket and jotting down a few notes. Lavellan had been note-taking the entire time, while Solas opted to store the entire encounter inside his brain, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “While it looks as if the structure outside the shoulder is a cap, it seems it has grown through and began to spread on the outside.”

“I find it incredibly odd this person was able to survive to such a state at all.”

“As do I. The hardened lung should have killed him ages ago. Is enhanced body performance a side effect?”

“In this case, can this animate corpses?” She continues.

“As morbid as it sounds, it may be advantageous to take a look at the brain.”

“I will need to ask you to leave in order for me to do that. A report should be ready in a few days. I need to prepare the body for burial in the meantime, anyway.”

“I appreciate it, Velanna,” Lavellan claps a hand onto the woman’s shoulder, tucking her notebook away in her waistcoat.

 

.

 

Neither body has begun to putrefy, and so, there is less to be done than they hope. Lavellan walks back with them to the market square, quiet. Solas is also lost in his thoughts, instead he turns for their apartment.

“Wait a second,” she draws their attention again, eyes flickering over a stopwatch she pulls from her breast. “Hawke and Bull should be meeting me soon. I’d like for the two of you to accompany me to see the Arishok.”

“What for?” The surprise in his tone makes him sound uncharacteristically rude. “Pardon, however I-“

“Because we both know that this isn’t just going to blow over. Something more is happening and the Qunari were the original ones to take responsibility. There’s too much going on and I can use all the eyes I can get.”

“Would the Qunari be apprehensive with a party of five?”

“Perhaps,” she concedes. “However, desperate times calls for desperate measures. The Arishok will understand. He’s a reasonable man.”

Solas hums, head tilting slightly, “Fine, if it will be of help to you.”

“It would,” she nods in thanks. “Hawke and Bull should not be long. Then shall the five of us have lunch? I can fill you in more thoroughly on the situation with the Qunari.”

“Sounds delightful,” comes the deadpan response.

Lavellan makes a show of rolling her eyes.

They stand there together, for a few minutes in silence before a large Qunari and a black haired woman saunters up to them. Lavellan loudly taps her foot with fists on her hips and leans forward to chide them. Before she can do so, Hawke holds up her hands. “Don’t need to get up in arms, Lavellan.”

“You’re a half hour late,” she groans. “What on _earth_ were you doing?”

“Slavers, Boss,” says Iron Bull, hands landing on her shoulders to crane her out of her cross position. “That’s not good for your back.”

“Ok, but,” she frowns, “You can’t just kill slavers, you’re supposed to bring them in.” Deliberately, she ignores the moving fingers across her neck. “I can’t do anything, track anyone down, locate sold slaves, nothing if you dont –“

“Cullen is dealing with them now,” smirks Hawke. “We’ve heard this before, you know.”

“Yes but, Cullen is dealing with Merideth today and –“

“Fortunate for him, isn’t it then?”

Lavellan sighs and shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders to get Bull off of her after a pat on his hand. “ _No_ not fortunate for him, she’s going to be ranting for _days_ and I won’t get him back –“

“What do you need Cullen for, anyway, we’re much more useful.”

The Inquisitor bristles. “I do _not_ need Merideth scrutinizing everything I do. I don’t answer to her, I answer to the Viscount, and as long as the woman is alive she’s going to continue to butt her nose into –“ she stops, and sighs. “Look, I can’t do this in public, you know that. You’re doing this to rile me up, I just know it.”

“It’s pretty fun seeing you get riled up, though, Lavellan,” Hawke quips, eyes turning to Solas and Dorian. “So, you goin’ to introduce me to your friends or not?”

Cuffed once again, she coughs. “This is Solas Fen’harel, poisons and magic expert and chemistry major at the University. Dorian Pavus is a medical doctor. Marian Hawke, expert of getting shit done and beating people up, and The Iron Bull, liason to the Arishok and Tal-Vashoth.”

They shake hands, as is polite, and nod. “Shall we eat?” Solas asks, turning.

“Man after my own heart,” Hawke laughs. “I know a great place that’s not too expensive if you’re willing to go to Darktown.”

Lavellan sighs and shakes her head. “It’s not usually where I like to take my partners for lunch, Hawke.”

“It’ll be perfectly safe, and the food is good. Besides, Leliana can use all the support she can get. She feeds the homeless with her profits, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I know, and a decent allowance from the Inquisition goes to supporting her; that doesn’t mean I want to take first time partners there.”

“Stop being so pretentious and let’s go, I’m hungry.”

 

.

 

The red headed woman behind the counter steps around to greet them, get their names, but it is quite apparent she is only being polite. All of them are attended to, before Lavellan is pulled into her embrace and her cheeks kissed. “Ellana, it’s good to see you.”

Dorian’s brow raises, and his eyes look to Solas who shrugs just slightly. Hawke goes ahead to take a seat, waving them over to the table while Lavellan lingers behind. “Yes, you too, Leli. How are things going around here? Do you need anything?”

“Of course not, we are faring quite well. You have already done enough.”

“You do good things, here, it’s only natural that I would want a part of it.”

“Except you never come by.”

“I’m busy. Things have gotten... precarious.”

“How so?” Leliana follows Lavellan to the table where she sits with the rest of them, taking out a pad of paper. With a wave of a hand, “Go ahead and look over the menu first, I’ll take your order.”

“Leli, you don’t-“

“Shush.” She grins. “I know your order already, or would you like to try something else?”

“No, no.” Lavellan’s head shakes. “My usual is fine.” Leliana makes a note on the pad. “See, two more Dwarves dead. Arishok is this close to beating the shit out of whoever necessary,” Lavellan holds up two fingers, pinched close with a sliver of space in between, “ _and_ Petrice is outside the precinct with her cronies picketing.”

“Have your hands full, then, dear?”

Lavellan nods and hums. “I could use some extra hands. Got any people?”

Leliana’s eyes scan the occupants of the table, landing on Dorian. His brows raise in question, wondering what she has learned just by looking at him. “I recommend the spaetzle. We have a cook who hails from Tevinter. He knows what’s he’s going.”

Dorain’s brows raise even further, and then he nods. “I would like that, thank you.”

She smirks. “I can send a few ‘converts’ your way. How many do you need?”

“I wouldn’t risk more than two.”

“Yes, they have their own spies, after all.”

“Don’t give me away,” chuckles Bull. “Everyone in the world doesn’t need to know.”

“You don’t do a good job of doing that yourself, no?”

“Hey,” he pretends to be miffed for a moment, before his lips spread into a grin. “You know better than that.”

“Do I?” Her head tilts. “Ladies first?”

Everyone orders their food, and Leliana passes the information on to a server. “I need someone in the Chantry to find some dirt on Petrice. I tried to be kind with her, but now I can’t hold back anymore. Someone is going to get hurt from her radical tendencies.”

“I can get Sebastian to do it,” Hawke pipes in. “Playboy extraordinaire will have her wrapped around his finger in no time.”

“Chantry members take a vow of celibacy, Marian.”

“You really think it’s stopped anyone before?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Leliana’s head shakes and Lavellan laughs.

“How come you left anyway?”

“I found I could do more to help from outside the Chantry. I’ve never fit the life of a Chantry sister, despite enjoying it as much as I did.”

“I appreciate you,” Lavellan pats Leliana’s hand as she gathers up the menus.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

“So, that is why you fund her business?” Solas’ head cants just slightly to the side.

“Sure. I need connections everywhere in order to get things done.” She shrugs. “Now, the state of affairs. One of the Qun guards in merchant square was murdered by an unknown assailant, but I found the brand of a Tranquil on him. I think he was beaten with one of the branding irons because, of course, what else sort of weapon would they have in there?”

“Odd. Usually that would be in the hands of the Gallows.”

“Elthina had to take the branding irons away from the Gallows because Merideth was having mages made Tranquil for the smallest wrongdoing. Apparently, the woman gets more and more paranoid about blood magic by the hour. The amount of Tranquil went up by 20% this past month.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“I agree. But I can’t do anything about _her_ as much as I’d like to. She was bad, but not that bad. Now she’s...” her head shakes. “Anyway, unless Merideth hid one to keep but somehow didn’t have a weapon on her, which I know is entirely impossible she’s almost always got a revolver on her hip, then there’s no reason for her to be the one who did it. The Qun takes vengeance for all their members wronged, as it should, but I need to deter the Arishok because her death will only incite more retaliation.”

“Why not let it?” Solas interjects.

“You’ve never seen the Arishok. If you had, you’d know how someone like me would never be able to take him on without a shot gun in each hand.”

“I’d never let you take him on yourself, Boss,” laughs Bull, nice and hearty. “And he would not be so crass to demand that you fight him.”

“Why, because I’m a woman?” she puffs herself up.

“No, because you’re a third his size, and that would be an unfair fight.”

“But he will be fine to mow down most of Kirkwall.”

“He hasn’t done so already. That means he can’t be interested in doing so.”

Sighing, her head shakes. “Alright, I trust you know him better than I do. But that doesn’t mean much with Petrice around inciting violence by practitioners.” Letting her chin drop in her hands, she glances over the entire table. She seems frustrated. “And now either someone stole the branding iron or it was one of the Chantry members themselves.”

“Then why not wait until someone reports it missing?”

“Im not so sure how long I should wait before confronting someone about it. It is likely no one will report it missing at all. Why would they if they are the one who committed the murder?” Her head shakes in her hands. “That sort of after the fact. Let me brief you on the situation with the Qunari.”

That’s when Leliana and a server comes out with the food, piping hot. She passes them around, giving Bull two different dishes. Then the waters are filled, and Lavellan served a cup of coffee. She doesn’t bother to bring more cups, but she does put a small pitcher in front of her. Silverware, napkins, and they are left to their conversation again.

“They have been squatting near the docks for about a year and a half. In that time there has been precisely twelve converts of who four of them have been murdered by zealots targeting the Qun. These are people who are generally impoverished, most of them from Darktown or Lowtown. The Qun works under a system where each person is assigned a part, and they in turn are taken care of without preamble or notion of hierarchy. That is the aspect that appeals to those impoverished, where the Chantry assumes you must be a bad person and you deserve your plight, and by making enough penance to the Maker, your fortune will change.

“So far, the Arishok has only asked for us to hold the burials ourselves, so that the family of the deceased can be called forward to take ownership of their possessions. I’ve had to plead with him once already to keep his temper in check, but none of his men were threatened, so he heeded me. This time...” She sighs, pushing her lasagna and destroying the layers. “We still are not sure just why they’re there. It is not to be evangelical, those who have converted had done so of their own accord. Part of the issue that started all this is that the Viscount’s son, Seamus, converted, and sent me to go get him. When the boy refused to come home, Petrice had found the ammo that she needed.

“Since then, she has been rallying followers. I sat in on one of her mid-week classes, and she spent the entire time ranting about the Qunari. I am not sure why or how it matters so much to her, or if she just already had a vendetta and they showed up in time for her to point it at them. She never gave concrete reasons for her frustration, just quoted parts of the Chant that reminded the people they weren’t able to have anything to do with them. Fortunately, most people aren’t listening to her. The unwanted effect is that she has redoubled her efforts.”

“You realize that I am not in favor of the Qun?” Solas starts before anything else can be said.

“I thought you weren’t for needless death, primarily. You’re free to leave if your prejudice proceeds you.” She snaps.

With a shake of his head and a wry smile, “No, you are correct.”

“Fine then.” She finally cuts and lifts her now cold lasagna to her lips.

“What do you think should be our first line of defense?” Bull fills the silence and lifts the attention away from Solas.

“I don’t know if there will be one. Arishok knows that if I show up, something’s wrong.”

“Perhaps you should not come at all.”

“Who is going to be able to face him if he decides to take vengeance?”

“Me?”

“Creators, Bull, you’re large for a Qunari, I’ve noticed it. But he’s even larger than you.”

“I get that, but that doesn’t mean much. You, on the other hand-“

“I got it.” She’s pushing her food around again, and then throws her fork on her plate and picks up her coffee to nurse instead. Dorian, Solas, and Hawke are already finished eating. Bull turns back to his food, lifting it the bowl to his face instead of attempting to bend over the table and end up knocking things over with his horns. “How much you want to bet that he’s going to smell stupid as soon as we walk in.”

“Oh, we don’t need to place money on that,” Hawke answers her. “There’s a reason he’s Arishok, after all.”

“Just keep your wits about you, and for the life of me, Solas, don’t insult anyone.”

“Cutting deep today, I see.”

“Oh hush.” She laughs, then leans slightly to bump shoulders with Hawke. “Fenris really does go a good job, Birdie.”

“Don’t go around making that fact well-known. He’d kill if people knew the ‘living weapon’ enjoyed cooking.” Hawke laughs.

“Yeah, well, if that’s what he wants to be known for, I certainly cannot blame him.”

 


End file.
